


There Was Close

by teand



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Sam POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-09
Updated: 2012-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-01 18:19:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teand/pseuds/teand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam couldn't lose anyone else to fire...</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Was Close

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of the first SPN fic I ever started although I finished half a dozen or so later fic before I finally worked out the tangles in this one. First published in LJ 02/03/2007. Set in mid to late season one in those halycon days before the Winchesters started popping in and out of hell like doomed, albeit attractive, jack-in-the-boxes.

 

There was close. And then there was too close.

Sam had lived with close all his life.

Close was squeezing together the separating pieces of your brother's thigh and sewing the bleeding wound closed with tiny crooked stitches, not allowing your hands to shake until you were done. Close was your brother holding your father down while he writhed and fought as you removed almost three dozen wickedly barbed spines from his arm and side and realizing as you worked out one of the three he hadn't been able to block from his face that a half an inch higher and he'd have lost the eye. Close was the taste of cheap soap on a folded washcloth clamped between your teeth and the smell of your own blood burning, the sound of the scream you absolutely could not release, the feel of a mattress edge compacting under your grip and your brother's heated knife cauterizing the bite in your calf.

He could read the definition of close off his brother's skin and his father's and his own if he wanted to.

Tonight had been too close.

No blood but a fine patina of greasy ash that coated the inside of his mouth and nose and tasted of iron and etched painful lines across his eyes when he blinked.

The world outside the car seemed made of moving shadow pierced now and then by a rare and quickly vanishing flicker of light. Sam lifted his right hand off the faded denim over his thigh, spread his fingers and rested them against the window, pushing a little, half wondering if it would give. His skin felt tight, like a bad sunburn, and the hair was gone from the back of his wrist.

"Sam? Hey, Sammy! Get your head out of your ass and pay attention, I'm talking here."

He turned just far enough to see Dean grinning manically at him.

"You know what we need, Sam? We need to find a bar; a dark, noisy bar with cheap draft and willing women."

"You need to look at the road." His voice sounded weirdly distant – not weirdly like setting yourself on fire and then laughing about it weirdly, just weirdly like it was coming from behind a layer of glass. There was him, then there was the glass, then there was the rest of him. The most of him. In with the laughing and the burning.

Dean's brows rose and fell above glittering eyes. "I trust the force, young Skywalker. Now, let's go find that bar."

Too close was the blister rising on Dean's cheek, the ash in his hair, and the frenetic way his fingers drummed a countermeasure to What A Way to Go against the steering wheel.

***

The bar was everything Dean had asked for – dark enough to hide the scars, as much or more head banging as twanging on the jukebox, draft running five bucks a pitcher, and well, if the women weren't willing they looked like they wouldn't mind being convinced. There was even a tiny dance floor.

A little amazed at how well he seemed to be functioning, given how little of him seemed to be on the non-laughing, non-burning side of the glass, Sam swallowed a cautious mouthful of beer. It tasted like ash.

"I've been looking for this place my whole life." Dean murmured beside him, elbows back, knees spread, jeans pulled tight across his thighs, shirt pulled tight across his chest.

Frowning, Sam took another look around. Everything looked distant, not quite in focus. "It's probably a portal to hell," he suggested when it became obvious Dean was waiting for his response. The way their luck had been going, the odds were good they'd just stumbled into the bar where the neighborhood demons liked to hang out and kick back. Get drunk and kick ass. Set themselves on fire and laugh about it.

"Women out-number the men." Dean tipped back about a quarter of his beer and grinned. "Maybe it's the local lesbian hangout."

Hell, maybe. Lesbians, unlikely. Not the way they were window shopping what Dean had put out there on display.

"Cover me, Sam." He slid off the stool and tossed out a smile all flash and hungry white teeth. "I'm going in."

"Check for a heart beat," he muttered. The first half of his second beer was gone by the time Dean reached the table, his glass empty by the time Dean pulled out a chair and straddled it, free hand gesturing, all four women laughing at whatever he'd said. When Dean Winchester turned on the charm, lesbian minions of hell didn't stand a chance.

A bottle blonde, age masked but not hidden, approached the bar and slid into the space Dean had vacated. "And here you are," she purred, "all by yourself. You look..."

She'd been about to say "lonely", Sam could hear it in the pause. Brows up, he waited but she only frowned and shook her head, unwilling to actually say what he looked like. He turned his attention back to his brother and didn't notice when she left.

Watching Dean work the room was like watching a wolf work a flock of sheep. Predator, meet prey. Laughing faces flickered in and out of focus, Dean the only certainty. Sam held up his hand, fingers spread, almost surprised he couldn't feel the glass.

The level of beer in the pitcher dropped and the noise level climbed. The inevitable visit to the men's room was... well, he'd been in worse but then he'd disemboweled a hell hound in one just after his fourteenth birthday so that wasn't saying much. When he got back to the bar, Dean had obviously gained control of the jukebox – they might as well be back in the car, Metallica barricading them into their fortress of solitude. Duo-litude. Whatever.

Halfway through Sam's second pitcher, Dean returned, a curvy redhead on one arm, a slight brunette on the other. "This," he said, pulling the redhead up against his side, making his claim obvious, "is Amanda. And this is Judy." He launched the brunette in Sam's direction giving him no choice but to make the catch or let her slam into the bar.

Sam made the catch although it was close. He – and the beer -- had been a little surprised she'd made it through the glass.

"They're cousins," Dean told him, derailing Sam's train of thought. His exaggerated leer made both women giggle then he turned on one heel and swept Amanda back toward the dance floor.

Judy tucked herself deeper into the curve of Sam's arm, one hand resting lightly on his thigh, the other rising to brush at his hair. "Hey, you're covered in ash too. Your brother says you're forest rangers; that you were at the fire up 67."

Not at -- in the fire.

"He says that's where he got the burn on his cheek."

Too close.

"It's okay if you don't want to talk about it."

The understanding in her voice made him turn and actually look at her.

Her eyes were kind when they met his. "I get that it’s a dangerous job and maybe you've got to make yourself a little numb to deal. Your brother, he's all about hey look at me I'm alive but you don't quite believe it yet. That's cool." When she smiled, a dimple flashed in her right cheek. "I could help convince you."

He glanced out at Dean -- dancing in a way that was probably illegal in a couple states -- and then back at Judy. The warmth from her hand didn't quite penetrate his jeans. He tightened his arm across her back, just a little, and said, "You want a drink?"

***

Amanda and Judy shared an apartment.

"Let's hope they've got their own rooms," Dean snickered as Sam followed the tail-lights of their Ford Focus into town. "Because you'll just feel bad when you can't rise to match my extraordinary ability between the sheets."

"Bite me." It was like reading his lines off a script, a meaningless expected response.

Dean didn't notice. "Nah, you'd have trouble explaining the mark." He slouched in the seat managing to look wired in spite of his position. "Why are we in the same car again?"

"Because you and Amanda are both too drunk to drive."

"Don't give me that crap. You were pouring it back like you..."

_...were trying to put out a fire._

"...weren't paying for it."

"I stuck to the beer."

"Right. Suck it back, piss it out. Wuss."

The world had been out of focus before he'd started drinking. The beer'd just made it harder to hear the laughter stuck in behind the glass with him.

"You want to step on it, grandma; they're getting away."

The apartment was on the second floor of a big, old frame house; up an exterior set of stairs to small deck/balcony filled with potted plants. Dean had his mouth on Amanda's neck as she tried to unlock the door, one hand holding her hair aside as lips and teeth teased out a response, the other groping up under the edge of her shirt. Judy finally rolled her eyes, shoved them both out of the way and unlocked the door herself.

Her bedroom had high ceilings and two big windows and it didn't smell like smoke. Sam could hear thumping and laughter and it could have been awkward but Judy reached up, cupped his face with both small hands, and turned his head toward her, away from the wall and the noises his brother and her cousin were making.

"It'll be okay," she said.

Because he wanted to believe her, he bent toward her kiss. She tasted like lip gloss and beer and she made a pleased, approving sound against his mouth. When she wrapped her arms around his neck, he picked her up and carried her to the bed.

Clothing gone, skin to skin, she traced a cool finger along the puckered line that crossed the top of his chest, laid a soft hand against the old puncture on his right hip, but only asked about the scorch on his wrist.

"Did you get that when you pulled your brother out of the fire?" The touch of her mouth against his wrist burned. That, he could feel. "He told us you saved him."

The edge of the pit gave way and Dean pitched forward toward the flames. Sam threw himself flat and just barely managed to drive two fingers behind the waistband of his jeans. The thing burned and laughed and reached up to caress Dean's cheek as Sam hauled him clear.

Too close.

The glass was stronger than she was with her small hands and her soft skin and her single scar from where they took her appendix out.

"It's okay." She pulled his face to hers for another kiss. "It happens to everyone." He felt her smile against his mouth. "Now, this is where you say, it never happens to me."

Obediently, he repeated the words and then, because his hands at least seemed to be working, he did what he could to make it up to her. After, as she drifted off to sleep on his shoulder, her leg thrown between his, her fingers splayed out on his chest, Sam stared at the ceiling and listened to the laughter.

When he heard familiar footsteps passing in the hall, he slid carefully out of the bed and silently pulled on his clothes. Holding his boots, he paused at the door long enough for the fake brass knob to begin to warm in his grip then he left without looking back.

Dean was waiting outside on the deck. "What took you so long?" he demanded as Sam sat on the top step to pull on his boots.

"I don't like just slipping away in the night."

"You don't like it?"

"It's not fair to..." A jerk of his head back toward the apartment.

Dean snorted. "They knew what they were getting right from the start."

Wrapping the last of the heavy laces around his ankle, Sam tied them off and shook his head. "No," he said as he stood, "they didn't."

"Then we're men of mystery." His smile – big and shiny in the spill of light from the streetlamp – looked like a mask. "Chicks dig mysteries." He was still a little drunk and it seemed Amanda had barely blunted the manic edge.

Dean was already in the driver's seat when Sam reached the car although he had no memory of either of them going down the stairs to the road. The glass seemed to be getting thicker. He thought about protesting that Dean was still in no condition to drive but he just couldn't find it in him to care.

When they hit the highway, the shadows outside the car began to blur.

"Dude, we are burning up the road."

Burning.

"No."

"What do you mean: no?" Dean snorted.

Sam pressed his hand against the window. "I just mean no."

"I worry about you sometimes Sammy, I really do." But the engine's roar muted slightly and the shadows outside the car took on individual shapes of their own as Dean eased off the gas.

Not burning any more. Still laughing though.

The motel was small and cheap. Eight rooms in a row facing a potholed parking lot. They were in number seven, there was a truck missing its tailgate parked in front of number three. Sam noted the truck and the room without actually thinking about what he was doing.

The room itself was blue – walls, carpet, bedspreads, even the furniture wore a thick coat of blue paint. Sam stood by the door as Dean checked out the bathroom.

"You're not going to believe this, but that bathroom, is blue." Grinning, Dean tossed his kit on one of the beds then ran a hand up through his hair, standing it up in short, soft spikes. "I don't know why we stopped. I'm not tired." He shifted his weight from foot to foot, realized he was doing it and made it into a kind of fighter's shuffle, moving toward Sam then back again, shadow-boxing. "Dude, I am on fire."

Burning and laughing.

"Sam?"

Too close.

"Sam!"

The glass shattered.

All he could see was flame. All he could hear was laughter. All he could smell was smoke. All he could taste was ash. And all he could feel was fear.

Both hands grabbed handfuls of Dean's jacket, fists crushing the soft leather, pulling it tight, using it to throw his brother hard against the door. "Not by fire," he growled, arms braced against the counter attack, one leg slightly back for leverage, the other holding both of Dean's in place. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to watch. "Not again. Not ever again!"

"Jesus, Sam..."

And the laughter grew louder at the pain in Dean's voice.

"Sam! God damn it, Sammy, look at me."

The nickname got through -- his reaction instinctive, his response unthinking. "I'm not twelve!"

"And I'm not dead. I'm not even hurt – at least I wasn't until you went all Magilla Gorilla on me. Sam..."

He felt warm hands cup his face.

"...look at me."

"Flames..."

"There are no flames, I swear it. Sam, trust me and open your eyes."

There were flames; leaping, dancing, burning. But within them there were two points of green. Green like water – cool, deep water. Sam focused on the green, let himself fall into it. Drew in a long shuddering breath – smoke, ash – and released it finally to find himself staring into his brother's eyes.

"You could have died."

"Yeah." Dean shrugged as well as his position allowed and dropped his hands to rest on each side of Sam's neck. "I could have. But I didn't. You saved me, Sam." One corner of his mouth twitched up. "Just don't get a swelled head about it."

"I saved you."

"That's what I said."

Judy was right. He still didn't quite believe it.

"You going to let me go now?"

"No."

Dean's lips were warm and dry. He tasted like beer but not like lip gloss. Sam felt the hands on his neck tremble, move to his shoulders, tighten, and when he lifted his head Dean was staring at him like...

...like he was staring into the fire.

"Sam..."

"Prove to me you're alive," he said, bending his head again, drawing his tongue along his brother's lower lip, catching the wet curve between his teeth then laving the tiny hurt. "Make me believe it."

And Dean made a noise that might have been pain but Sam thought it sounded somehow like glass breaking. One hand rose to grip his jaw, the other wrapped around the back of his head, strong fingers clutching at his hair. Then Dean's mouth was on his, hot and demanding, slick and messy and what Judy couldn't do with her breasts, and hips, and hands, and lips, and smooth, scar free skin... Dean did with a kiss.

Sam heard someone whimper and realized it was him, hard so quickly he would have fallen had Dean's body not been there to support him. He rubbed his erection against Dean's hip in short choppy arcs, unable to find the co-ordination for more.

Then a leg shoved between his and a hand splayed out on his chest and he was shoved backwards toward the bed, Dean's mouth licking and sucking and chewing and driving him wild.

When his calves hit the edge of the mattress and they stopped, Dean pulled away and looked up at him. Sam couldn't remember his eyes ever being so green.

"Be sure, Sammy." His voice was rough, on the edge of threat. "Be very sure."

Sam reclaimed the fistfuls of leather jacket and fell backwards, dragging his brother down with him. Given their combined weight, the impact wasn't so much a bounce as a potential for disaster but the bed proved stronger than it looked.

Dean grinned. "Good enough."

Hands so sure with guns or knives fumbled buttons and belts, need making them both clumsy. Skin was taking too long so they stopped worrying about undressing and just pushed cloth up and down and out of their way. Finally, Sam felt Dean's fingers close around his cock – the rough edge of callous, the cold, hard line of his ring. He shoved his own hand between them, so close together there was barely room for two hands and two cocks and no room at all for doubt.

It was rough and sloppy and fast and when Sam came keening his brother's name, Dean looked startled, slammed up into Sam's grip, and spilled warm and wet over his fist.

A few moments later, when he could hear again over the rasp of his own labored breathing, Sam listened for laughter but the only sound in the room was the whine of the cheap clock on the blue table between the beds. The only sound until Dean pressed his hand against Sam's chest, on the scar that puckered the skin over his heart, and said in a voice that left no room for argument, "I'm alive."

And Sam smiled. "I believe you."

Sam had lived his whole life with close. Close was a lifetime of sharing blood and sweat and pain and joy and terror and not having the luxury of hiding any of it away. Close was mile after mile spent sitting beside his brother while his heart slammed against his ribs in time to the music, while the road spun away into darkness behind them and stretched out past infinity in front. Close was burning when they chose.

There was close. And there was no such thing as too close.

Not for them.

\--end--


End file.
